True Love Hurts
by Professor Maka
Summary: They were childhood friends who fell in love, but when they can't find a way to share their feelings, will love really be enough? SoMa AU. Part three written for SoMa Week 2015 Day 3, Catharsis.
1. Elderly Woman Behind the Counter

**A/N: I don't know why this rushed at me one morning like oncoming traffic; I haven't even heard this song in awhile. Yet here it is. I'm sorry.**

**The song belongs to Pearl Jam, the assholes. As this has three substantial parts, I decided to pull it from Little Black Submarines to make it easier to read together. The first two parts were written back to back months ago, and the third was just completed for SoMa week.**

**The overall title of the fic is a bit of a lyric from Ke$ha's "Harold's Song," which is referenced in the second part.**

* * *

_I swear I recognize your breath._

_Memories, like fingerprints, are slowly raising._

_You wouldn't recall, for I'm not my former…_

_It's hard when, you're stuck upon the shelf._

_I changed by not changing at all,_

_Small town predicts my fate,_

_Perhaps that's what no one wants to see._

* * *

The bell rang merrily and she raised her green eyes to see who had entered her little shop. It was odd, this early in the season, at this time of day, to have customers, but she welcomed them, welcomed the distraction.

And then, her heart froze.

_It was him_.

Because thirty years come and gone, she would still know him anywhere. Sure, his white hair was speckled gray now, sure his face was lined with care, but still, she knew him. She would always, always know him.

Their eyes met across the store, but if he recognized her, he said nothing. He simply nodded a greeting and disappeared into the back to browse.

Surely he hadn't recognized her; her hair was graying now, too, her own face worn. More probably, though, he had forgotten her. She swallowed down a painful lump.

She wished she could forget him so easily.

Memories flooded her, unbidden, and thirty years suddenly felt like yesterday.

They'd met when they were children. Her family lived in a small, seaside tourist town, his owned a cottage there and came every summer.

When she was 9 and he was 10, she went to her special place to be alone. Mama and Papa were fighting again, but she could always find solace under the little pier across from their house. Only, this time, there was someone there.

"Excuse me," she'd said, trying to remember to be polite like her Mama had taught her she should, "this is my spot, so if you don't mind…"

She trailed off. He didn't move, still sitting, hunched into himself, half in shadows. She heard a sniff, walked closer.

She saw too bright eyes. He was crying.

"But, um, I guess you can stay, if you want." He looked strange. He looked_interesting._ His hair was bright.

And he was sad.

Maybe he was like her. Maybe they could be friends.

"I was going to play house," she smiled down at him. "I like to pretend to be the Mama, but I have to pretend that pillar," she motioned to the one behind him, "is the Papa. But you could be the Papa this time if you want."

He didn't say anything, just blinked up at her for a minute. Then, finally, he stood.

"House is for babies," he insisted.

She felt indignation welling up, because who was he to invade her sanctuary and then call her a baby? Her little fist curled into a tight ball. She'd show him who was a baby.

She cocked her arm back and punched him, hard.

"Hey!" he yelped, scrambling back and rubbing his sore arm with his free hand. "What the hell!"

"Who's a baby now?" she grinned, triumphant. "And don't say hell, it's a bad word."

"Hell hell hell!" he sing songed, and she rushed forward and punched him again.

"Ouch!" he shrieked. "Stop it you—you—pigtailed freak!"

"Better than a cry baby!" she yelled back.

He blinked at that, all anger fled, and his eyes looked shiny once more.

Oh no. She hadn't meant… oh no no no. She didn't mean to make him cry again.

She walked forward until she was closer to him, catching his eyes and holding them with her own. They were red, red as her Papa's hair, red as the center of a flame on a cold night. She'd never seen eyes like that. Even back then, she thought them beautiful. Exotic. Like she could escape in them to another world, another life, a better one.

"Um, anyway. I'm gonna play house, okay? But—I'd really like it if you'd be the Papa. Even if you think it's for babies. Please?"

He let out a breath. "I guess," he crossed his arms. "But you gotta play Star Wars with me when we're done, okay?"

"Deal!" she said happily, holding out her hand.

"Deal," he repeated, taking it and grasping it warmly.

"So, um, what's your name? After all, I should know the name of my husband," she said as she moved her hand back.

"Soul," he said. He sounded hesitant.

"Oh, wow, that's a neat name! Kinda like my Papa!" He grinned at that, a genuine smile full of oddly sharp teeth, and she grinned back. She liked his smile, strange though it was, liked the idea of having a friend who wasn't Blake. "My name's Maka!"

"Maka, sounds cool."

"Yeah, cool!" she agreed.

And from then on, they'd been friends.

They met under the pier most days. His parents owned the large cottage at the end of the street and they both had reason to get away. She couldn't take the fighting; he couldn't take the expectation, the disappointment.

They didn't talk about it, not then. They just played. Star Wars. Doctor. House. One day, he ventured a kiss, because husbands were supposed to kiss their wives, a small peck on the mouth, childish and sweet.

It was her first kiss, the only time he ever kissed her, and she suspected it was his, too.

She never forgot it.

The summer ended and he left.

She never forgot him.

By the next summer, when Maka was 10 and Soul was 11, her Mama was gone and her Papa was lost to women and drink. She had even more reason to be out of the house.

Blake started hanging around, and he and Soul hit it off. Maka was jealous; she felt like her to best friends had stolen each other away from her. Still, better as third wheel than being stuck in her house alone.

The summer after, Blake was away at camp most of the time, and Maka and Soul only had each other again. She was 11 and he was 12 and they had outgrown playing house. They played board games instead, and cards. Sometimes she went to his cottage and played video games. Sometimes, his older brother would come in. With his pale blond hair and burgundy eyes, he reminded Maka of the sun and the sand, and he was always so _nice_, not like Soul; Soul was always sullen. Still, she understood why. Because that summer, they really talked, shared their secrets, because both were tired of being alone, because both just wanted someone, anyone, to understand.

Maka told him how her parents had fought, how her Papa had betrayed her Mama over and over again, how she first met him because she used to hide, to pretend everything was okay, would be okay if she just wished hard enough. It never was. And now, her Papa spent his time drinking and hopping from bed to bed, living off the income of the lucrative little shop he had built with his ex-wife, living like a man possessed. He called her baby and sweetheart and bought her anything and everything she wanted. He doted on her and coddled her and told her he loved her best. When, that is, he was actually home. Lies, all lies. If he loved her best, then why was he always somewhere else?

Soul told her about his family. About his father, the famous pianist, the famous businessman, his mother the flautist, and his brother the violinist. About how he was expected to be just as good as his father and his brother and his mother and how he never quite met their expectations. Other people called him a prodigy; his father saw him as a failure. He told her about how he was supposed to practice hours a day, about how the only reason his parents agreed to come here in the summers was because he and Wes had insisted it would help them focus. They thought he was practicing, mostly, when he was with her. They were too busy on day trips and week trips with friends and clients to know the difference, and really, why should they? He was just the second son, second best, not worthy of their notice. Really, he was starting to prefer it that way. Really.

Summers came and summers went.

The summer that Maka was 13 and Soul was 14, Blake once more spent most of his time off at camp. Maka and Soul spent most of their time together, though Wes kept hanging around them. He was handsome and charming and five years older than Soul, and Maka gave him all her focus when he was there. Soul started teasing her mercilessly. He called her tiny tits and fat ankles and told her she'd never get a boyfriend. She called him shark face and jerkwad and told him she didn't want one and never would.

She didn't quite notice the look of hurt that sometimes flashed across his face, though years later, she recognized it for what it was and it stung.

The summer when Maka was 14 and Soul was 15, a Japanese foreign exchange student came to stay with Blake's family. Her name was Tsubaki. She was 17 and had hair like the night sky and eyes like the sea. She put up with Blake's boasting; it actually made her smile. He softened himself around her; he actually cared what she thought.

Maka thought maybe that's what love looked like. They all spent time together, all enjoyed the sun and the sand. But summer came and summer went and Tsubaki left and didn't come back.

Blake was never the same.

If that was love, then Maka could do without.

The next summer, Maka was 15 and Soul was 16. Blake was off again, and somehow, someway, Soul had managed to wheedle a motorcycle out of his parents. He wanted to take her out. She balked; those things were dangerous, those things were death traps! He pleaded, she relented, she secretly loved it, the wind in her hair, his warm back against her chest. They spent half the summer on the bike, watching the stars from the cliffs the town over, leaned together, sharing warmth. He was her best friend, even if she only saw him in the summer. When fall came and he left, she cried every night for a week. She felt empty and alone with him not there, and Blake was far too busy mourning Tsubaki to notice or care. Her Papa noticed nothing but himself.

The summer that Maka was 16 and Soul was 17, they were inseparable, as they had been for years. They grew closer, and he never teased her anymore, and she never punched him when he was a jerk. Blake was around, but it didn't matter, Soul didn't care. They started holding hands. Neither commented, neither said what it meant, but it felt warm and right. They snuggled a lot, hugged a lot, talked about everything. He had just graduated; his parents wanted him to go to Julliard, but he wanted to see the world. She was going to be a senior; she wanted to go away to school in a year, somewhere far from her Papa, far from this place.

Then he shared an idea. Wouldn't it be nice, he said, if they went to school together? He thought it would be.

She didn't answer. She couldn't answer. She knew she was in love with him. She thought he might love her, too, but love was fleeting. It was painful. It never lasted.

Love would always only ever disappoint.

She was afraid to love him, to be with him. Couldn't their friendship be enough?

That summer went by too fast, but it was the best time of her life.

The last night of the season, their last night together, he kept his eyes carefully to the sky, to the clouds and the glimmering stars.

She had been talking about how people always disappoint. Her Papa, her Mama, Tsubaki. She had come to expect it.

"Do you think," he said, voice soft and hesitant, "you could ever find someone who won't disappoint you?"

_Yes! _her heart screamed at her, _I found you, _but doubt clawed at her mind, and instead, she answered,

"No, I don't think such a person exists."

He nodded once, then inched his hand over to hold hers, carefully, so carefully as if it might shatter in his grasp.

"I hope you do." He sounded so sad, so fragile, that she wanted to hold him. He was sad for _her. _

"Who knows, maybe I will."

_Maybe I already have._

They stayed that way, holding hands on the beach until sunrise, lost in a sea of their own private thoughts.

By midmorning he was gone.

She resolved that next summer, she would tell him. That she she loved him. That she thought going to school together would be nice, too. She would give him the chance to prove her wrong. She hoped he wanted that chance.

The next summer came and then the next, but he never did; two summers gone, two summers without him, she realized the truth.

He didn't want it, didn't want _her_. She had been wrong.

In the end, he only disappointed her, too.

But she was a fool. He had made her foolish and she held out hope as summers came and summers went. Boys began to notice her, but she always turned them down.

She shouldn't have loved him this much. He'd been a jerk half the time and they'd never even been together, never been more than friends. She shouldn't have loved him this much, but she did and she couldn't change it.

She went off to college. Went on a few dates. It never lasted. None of them were _him_.

Every summer she came home.

Every summer he wasn't there.

His family sold their cottage. He wasn't coming back. Still, her heart yearned. Still, her heart hoped. Still, her heart waited.

She graduated and went home. There was nothing there for her, but still, she went.

She and Blake spent more time together again, like they had when they were kids. Like she had with Soul. He'd finished school, too, come home, too.

Loss was their bond—he'd never gotten over Tsubaki either. It felt somehow right to bond with another shadow.

A year passed of her working in her father's shop, of Blake giving sailing lessons.

One day he came in, face too serious. It was the end of the season and the shop was dead; her father was off with one of his women, like always.

His eyes were dead, too, but his voice was alive.

"Go out with me on Friday," he said, a command not a question.

"You know I can't."

"We've both been waiting too long. They aren't coming back, you have to know that. We have to move on. Thought maybe—maybe we could try it together. You know you're one of the few minions I can stand."

She sighed but nodded because what harm?

He wasn't coming back; she wasn't coming back. Perhaps two shadows could build something of substance.

One date became a dozen became living together. A year later, they moved away together; there was nothing left to wait for.

They understood each other. They both knew their hearts belonged to others, hopelessly, uselessly, but they were friends, they loved each other in that way. He knew she'd always think of _him_ and she knew he'd always think of _her _and that was okay.

They built a life. It wasn't the life either wanted, but it was better than nothing. They had three spirited children they couldn't regret. Yes, they were better as friends—they butted heads constantly, spectacularly—but even still, both preferred that to being alone.

Better than living as shadows.

When Blake died of a heart attack at 49, she mourned her husband and her friend, but still, she thought of _him._

Was he happy? Did he ever dream of her as she dreamed of him? Had he loved her as she loved him?

But no, he couldn't have. If he had, he would have come back.

Blake, she knew, would still be waiting for _her_ wherever he had gone_. _

Again, Maka was alone, again, she was a shadow. Really, hadn't she always been?

She moved back home after decades away. Opened a small bookstore. With their youngest in college, what else was there to do with herself?

And now—now—over three decades later, _he_ was back.

_Why did he come back?_

She'd thought his memory was but a shade, that it had faded to match her empty soul.

She hadn't thought it could hurt this much.

"Did you find everything okay?" she asked, too brightly, as he approached the counter, a book on the hidden wonders of Death City clutched in one hand.

His red eyes rose to meet hers, as piercing as she remembered them, and he slid over the amount shown on the register.

"Not sure, but I'm hoping I will. Gonna be here for awhile." His voice was gruff, the same, yet different. _He_ was the same, yet different. And yet—and yet—he was still _her Soul._

"Oh, well, I hope you find what you're looking for, Soul." She tried to keep her voice even as she spoke the name he hadn't given, but it was impossible. She swallowed thickly, drowning in his impossibly red eyes.

"Me too, Maka. Me too."

As he walked out, walked away, she wondered if shadows could regain something like substance.

Maybe she would even live to find out.


	2. True Love Waits

**A/N: This one is named for a Radiohead song and inspired by a Kesha song, "The Harold Song," which I had to scrap for the title (because it made a terrible title,) but which still plays a role in the fic. I don't actually hate Starbucks, by the way; Soul doesn't speak for me, though I sometimes speak for Soul.**

**This one is just as angsty as the first part, for which I'm sorry. For those of you who asked for more, here it is.**

**WARNING: Two paragraphs at the very end also brush up against smut—they aren't explicit, but NSFW/M rating just to be safe.**

**Thanks, as usual, go to rebornfromash for reading through the thing. Mwah.**

* * *

_And true love waits_

_In haunted attics_

_And true love lives_

_On lollipops and crisps._

_Just don't leave_

_Don't leave._

* * *

He really hated Starbucks, but it had been a rough morning and he needed his caffeine fix. He'd dreamt of her again last night. This time, he was at her funeral, looking down at her cold body, lifeless, frozen in time.

She looked just like she had then, holding his hand so tightly, wearing his jacket as she declared that people always disappointed.

Even him. He was not her exception. He wasn't her one, even if she was _his._

He'd thought, then, if he didn't go back, he could get over that, get over _her. _

He was wrong.

The line was interminably long this morning, full of people in suits and ties in far too big a rush. And the music!

The indie-emo crap they generally played was bad enough, but today it was straight out pop. He cringed. Fucking Starbucks.

He tried _not _to listen, but music had a way of invading his headspace no matter what he did. It always had.

At least the singer had a decent voice.

"We promised that this would last forever but now I see," she crooned over the speakers to a mix of subdued instrumentals. "It was my past life, a beautiful time. Drunk off of nothing but each other 'til the sunrise."

Well, that wasn't apropos or anything.

"They say that true love hurts, well this could almost kill me. Young love murdered, that is what this must be. I would give it all to not be sleeping alone. Alone."

And certainly not painful. His palms itched as he waited, two people still ahead of him. He thought he recognized the singer's voice—someone his daughter was a fan of he was pretty sure. The fact that _she_ would have probably liked the song, too, wasn't helping.

"The life is fading from me while you watch my heart bleed. Young love murdered, that is what this must be. I would give it all to not be sleeping alone—"

Fuck it. He really couldn't take listening to some teen pop star expose his bleeding heart any longer. Rude or not, he shoved in his ear buds and sighed as Miles Davis' trumpet crooned sweetly into his ear.

Much better. Even if the words still haunted him. Young love murdered—that was the story of his life in a nutshell.

Thirty years later, it still hurt just as much. He was certain it would still hurt on his death bed.

Young love murdered. His heart murdered.

It was his turn.

He didn't even bother removing his headphones, kept Miles firmly in his ear as he asked for a tall Americano, threw down a ten, and told the cashier to keep the change.

"What name?" The cashier mouthed as Miles played on.

"Soul. My name is Soul."

When the coffee came up, he left quickly.

Fuck Starbucks.

The fact he _still_ couldn't get that damned pop song out of his head five hours later, even after lunch with his daughter, even after four hours of music on shuffle, shouldn't have surprised him, really it shouldn't have.

That song was him, that song was _them_, and not a day went by, not one, that he wasn't thinking of _her._

His wedding day. The day his daughter was born. The day his wife left him for her best friend.

He'd actually been relieved. His marriage with Anya had always been a farce, an alliance of wealth and convenience, the fondest wish of their families rather than themselves. They'd grown to be friends, but there was never love, so if she had finally decided to drop the pretense and admit to the world what she admitted to him on their third date, well, so be it.

Tsugumi was a good woman—a good mother to their child, too. He was happy for them, he really was.

They'd been together ten years now.

Ten more years he'd been alone, ten more years without _her._

He sat at the baby grand in the middle of his apartment, idly fingering the keys; the fact that he was picking out the melody to the pop song from before didn't register, his thoughts too far elsewhere.

Nine months. It had been nine months since he looked her up again on a whim, nine months since he caught her name in Blake's obituary. Nine months since his heart had leapt into his throat with something like hope, cruel, too cruel, to base his hope on the death of a man he had once called friend.

He was a bastard and he had never deserved her. It didn't mean he didn't still_love_ her, though. It didn't mean he didn't still _need_ her, still _want_ her.

Thirty years couldn't erase the fact she was a part of his very soul.

Maybe it was time. Lila was in college, now, and he rarely played in public anymore. He had a huge trust, huge assets; he'd never needed to make a living.

He could do as he pleased.

Why _not _go back? He knew she had; stalker that he was, he'd looked into her several times since they'd parted—the day he found the obituary was merely one.

She owned a little bookshop now, lived in her dad's old place. He didn't expect she'd welcome him with open arms thirty years later, but maybe they could be friends again.

He could settle for that, would settle for that like he should have done thirty years ago, like he should have done in the beginning.

If only she would let him, he would settle for that happily.

He picked out an old song he'd written for her but never played, the sweet, simple notes washing through him before shifting to something heavier, something more substantial, like she always had.

Yes, it was definitely time.

To buy plane tickets, to rent a cottage down the street from hers, to pack and make arrangements, these things took only a few days. He even purchased transport for his bike. It had cost a pretty penny, that, but he had kept it all these years because it reminded him of _her—_he wasn't about to leave it behind now.

The arrangements were a blessed distraction from his swelling heart, from this frightening hope growing too rapidly. He must not hope. To face her disappointment, her rejection amidst real hope—his heart wouldn't survive.

With the arrangements done, he was left only with his own thoughts, the wishes and what ifs that had haunted him for years. He had lunch with Lila again and told her he was going on a trip, and she smiled and wished him safe journey.

Well, his body would be safe enough, he supposed.

He went on a lot of trips, to play as a special guest, to play as a solo attraction, or just for the hell of it. She was used to it, and he always brought her back the most exquisite things he could find because nothing would ever be good enough for his baby girl: of all the regrets he had, and he had many, his daughter would never be one of them.

Two days left until he would leave he decided to drive, screw the arrangements. He had his luggage shipped, hopped on his bike, and just _went._ Driving the open roads, the wind roaring in his ears and in his blood, _her_ soul roaring in his own, it was better than waiting and fretting, far, far better.

He pulled up to a motel when he was too exhausted to drive longer, ate at greasy dives when the roar of his stomach out bellowed the roar of the wind, and in three days, he was pulling into the little seaside town, pulling into the landlord's drive to pick up the keys to his rental cottage, pulling into this new part of his life.

The buzz of adrenaline, of excitement that had burned through his veins during his drive began to fade as he sat on the gaudy floral couch in his kitschy white washed living room.

He was here, but _so what?_

The realization that he wasn't ready to face her, not yet, hit him hard. He put his head in his hands.

This was a mistake. She didn't want to see him; if she had, she would have contacted him at some point,_ any_ point.

He had groceries delivered, afraid to run into her by accident. Had takeout delivered. For five days he lived as a shut in, so close but still too far. He replayed their last night together over and over in his mind. She hadn't wanted him then—why should she now? They were strangers weren't they, both worn and polished by life to cast a different sheen?

This was a mistake.

He was pining for a ghost, a sixteen year old girl who no longer existed. Whoever Maka was now, she wasn't that girl anymore. That girl was long gone, left behind in a flurry of pain and regret.

And yet, wasn't she still _Maka? _

On the sixth day, he made his choice.

Ghost or not, she still owned his soul, always had. Wasn't it better to know his soul belonged to the past and move on? Or to know it belonged to a living, breathing being and move forward?

Surely he couldn't exist in this self created limbo forever, surely he had to do something, to shit or get off the damned pot, as it were.

Better to shit and find out if he had laid a golden egg or a giant turd.

He gazed at himself in the mirror, splashing cold water in his face and blinking it away quickly. He looked so _old, _so worn. At near fifty he could usually pass for thirty, but with his dark circles and bags, gifts of fear, gifts of heartache, he looked his age, looked battered by life. The face staring back at him was too old and too haggard for the bright girl he remembered, but hadn't he always been a being of lifeless gray scale next to her light?

He arranged his hair with care, spiking it in the way he always had. His own daughter made fun of him for it as _she _used to do; it was why he still did it, the thought it would annoy her, that it might make her feel something, _anything_for him.

He wore jeans and a loose fitting button up—wasn't looking to impress, that chance was long gone—just to be presentable. To not scare her away before he spoke hello.

It only took him an hour of staring at the little bookstore from across the street before he gathered the courage to enter, gathering the stares of passersby in turn. It was early in the season and the town was quiet—a man loitering aimlessly drew notice.

He ignored the stares, long since used to such things, as he wondered if she'd even be there. Maybe she had someone else work the counter and he was wasting his time. He almost hoped it was true, the thought of facing her making his stomach drop into his shoes.

He crossed the street with purpose, finally tired of standing stupidly. Pulled the door open to a merry little jingle. Stepped inside.

Instantly, his eyes met green; they were still the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Older, her hair just greying, _she _was still the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

His heart leapt and dropped and pounded uncontrollably. He kept his face neutral, years of schooling his features, of tamping his emotions making the action automatic, effortless, even if inside he was reeling.

He gave her a slight nod of acknowledgment and walked to the back casually as if to find a book.

Had that been surprise on her face, recognition in her eyes, and maybe hurt?

He didn't know. He was afraid to know.

He spent several minutes in the back, steeling his nerves, calming his heart. He grabbed a book at random from the local section, strolled to the counter casually as she asked, voice oddly bright,

"Did you find everything okay?"

He forced himself to meet her gaze again, felt like he was drowning in green, in the vibrant sea that was her eyes as he slid money across the counter to pay. There was a moment of desperate hope when he thought she might take it from him, might slide her warm perfect fingers over his, but she waited until he removed his hand before putting the money in the register and bagging whatever book he'd happened to grab.

"Not sure, but I'm hoping I will. Gonna be here for awhile." With her so near, too near, it was hard to keep the emotion from his voice. Did she recognize him? He thought she had, she did.

His answer was as honest as he could make it. He could never lie to her, not to her; he had found _her_, but he wanted to find her heart.

"Oh, well, I hope you find what you're looking for, Soul."

_So she did know him_.

His heart leapt again then crashed because she sounded so damned broken. Was it normal, after the loss of her husband, or was it him? He wanted to find out, needed to find out, needed to fix it whatever the cause. She looked so fragile, too fragile, and he wanted to hold her, to soothe her, but knew he couldn't. He didn't have the right, had never really had the right, and it killed him again as it had for decades, widening his perpetually open wound.

"Me too, Maka. Me too," he managed, and he thought he saw her eyes soften for an instant as he turned and left.

He didn't know what it meant, if it meant anything. He needed air, needed to breathe. He walked down the road towards their street. Found himself on her father's steps.

He'd have to talk to her, really _talk _to her. He only wished he knew what to say—he had always been shit with words.

Three hours later, he was still on the steps when he heard footsteps approaching, echoing in the eerie stillness. He didn't look up, was too afraid to do anything but stare at his hands between his knees as he heard her steps falter, pause, then resume.

He felt as much as heard as she sat next to him on the old, creaky step, a bare foot between them that may as well have been miles.

He heard her let out a breath.

"Hi," she said, voice just the slightest bit shaky.

"Hi," he responded, his hands still wholly capturing his attention as they clutched the insides of his knees too tightly.

A pause, not long, and then,

"What're you doing here?"

After thirty years it was a fair question. Her voice was still the slightest bit shaky, but whether from grief or anger or something else he wasn't sure. He braced himself and looked away from his hands, looked at her. She was looking back at him, eyes full of something he couldn't read.

He knew her so well. He didn't know her at all.

"I wanted to see you," he finally said.

She nodded as she frowned. "Why?"

Ah. She always did have a way of cutting to the quick of things.

He swallowed.

Because I love you? Because my heart has been torn and festering for thirty years and only you can fix that? Because I need you, I've always needed you, and I'm a fool and I should have been happy with your friendship because even that was more than I deserved?

They flooded him, his bitter thoughts, and he was sure he grimaced before forcing out, "because I missed you."

Gross understatement, but it was the best he could manage.

"Oh," she said, her eyes moving from him to her own hands, fluttering nervously in her lap. She was—so familiar yet not, like a favorite coat lost and reclaimed. "Oh," she repeated, as if once could never express what sounded suspiciously like hurt.

"Yeah," he said lamely, his own eyes returning to his knees.

"And you just thought—to come back now?" Her voice sounded strained.

How to answer that?

After three decades, he figured he owed them both the truth.

"No," he shook his head. "I've thought about it every day since I left."

"W—wha—". She stood up, fists clinched. "Don't lie to me, Soul, don't you dare fucking lie to me, not after—not—don't you fucking dare!" She was practically shaking, her eyes, as he met them again, blinding in their fury, in the brightness of unshed tears.

He stood up to face her, far more calmly than he felt, put out his hands placatingly as if dealing with a wounded animal. But how wounded? Was this her grief for Blake talking? Because surely it couldn't be for _him, _surely not.

"It's—it's the truth," he stammered out, heart bleeding anew at her wrath, at the unmasked hurt in her eyes. "I—I knew you didn't love me, knew you didn't want—"

"You knew—you _knew?" _She cut him off. She really was shaking now, vibrating, fists so tight he thought her bones might crack. Her voice went high, practically shrieking, before she took one calming breath, then another.

"You. Knew. _Nothing_," she gritted out, voice low and furious.

The words, the emotion, hit him hard. She never moved, but she may as well have struck him. He collapsed back to the stairs, head in hands, heart torn from his chest.

_He knew… Nothing?_

She couldn't mean—surely she couldn't mean—

But as she sat back down heavily beside him, sobbing quietly, he knew she did.

"Maka I… I'm sorry. I'm so _damned_ sorry."

He was cracking, breaking. Thirty years—thirty years…

"I loved you—I loved you _so much, _and when I thought—I thought you didn't love me, would never love me, it hurt, I couldn't make it stop hurting, and I thought maybe if I didn't see you—maybe I could forget, I could move past it. But I never could. I never did."

He was breathing heavily now, practically panting as he tried to contain his pain.

"Fuck you. _Fuck you_, Soul Evans. For leaving," her voice was low and angry again, her face tear stained, but as he raised his eyes at her harsh tone, she stared back at him, unflinching "For thinking that I—that I—_how could you_? I loved you. _I loved you_. Every summer I came back, every summer for five years, I came home and I waited. And then—and then—Blake came to me, and he was just as broken as I was. He was my best friend and we both knew our hearts would always be broken but maybe we could at least try. And we did, we tried, but though I cared for him, I never loved him. My heart has always been yours and you—you left me, just the same as everyone. So fuck you for doing this, to me—to us."

She was shaking in her anger, in her grief, and he wanted to hold her, to cling to her because _she had loved him, she had waited for him_, and he had thrown it away stupidly, carelessly. All this time, all these years…

They could have been together, could have had a life. They could have been celebrating thirty years together, not mourning thirty years lost.

And yet, his daughter's sweet face flashed in his mind, he wouldn't have had Lila…

The line of thought too painful, all of it too painful, he clutched his hair and stifled a scream.

"And fuck me, too," she said softly after a few minutes of sobbing, shaking her head. "For not telling you then, for not telling you that night. I was stupid, so stupid. We both were."

He swallowed, hard. "This was a mistake," he looked at her broken face, felt his broken heart disintegrating in his chest. "I shouldn't have come," he stood up, shook his head. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Maka. For this. For everything. It's—it's too late."

"No," she stood quickly as he meant to turn and go. "No, Soul," she reached for him, put her palm to his cheek, and he nuzzled into her hand instinctually. "It's never too late," she whispered, and then she was leaning forward, her face angling up.

He met her halfway as he should have done to begin with, as they both should have, and this kiss was nothing like their first, that small peck as children, no.

This kiss was anything but chaste.

How they found their way from her steps to her bedroom he would never know, but it happened and it happened quickly, neither having the will to wait for the other another minute, another second.

It was easy to make love to her, natural, like breathing. In his way, he had been making love to her all his life. It was _her_ he thought of when he had sex for the first time, clumsy and awkward in the arms of a green eyed clone. It was her he had thought of on his wedding night and every time after, biting his tongue to keep from crying _her _name as he moved inside his wife.

It was easy, yes, yet overwhelming, because every other time was but a shadow. He had been but a shadow. Inside her, crying her name to her echoing cries of his own, he was finally whole.

He stayed in another five days, ordering groceries and take out.

This time, it was with _her_.

Maybe love _couldn't_ be murdered. Maybe, even after thirty years, his heart could finally heal, she could heal it, they could heal each other.

Maybe true love waits.


	3. At Last

**A/N: The third and final installment was written for SoMa Week Day 3, Catharsis. Thanks again to Laura and l0chn3ss for the eyes.**

**Title and lyrics from the Etta James song At Last.**

* * *

_I found a dream, that I could speak to_

_A dream that I can call my own_

_I __found a thrill to press my cheek to_

_A thrill that I have never known._

* * *

They'd been sitting together on the brown leather sofa, staring at the middle of her Dad's old, battered coffee table for at least ten minutes, unmoving, unblinking, jaws slack. Perhaps they thought if they willed it hard enough, they could make that other little word appear, if they willed it hard enough, their world wouldn't come crashing down on them because of that first little word.

There was no will strong enough to change reality.

Maka spoke first, snapping her mouth shut with a slight smack and letting out a long breath.

"How… did this happen?" she said, still staring at the little stick in the middle of the table.

This seemed to jolt Soul off of whatever planet his mind had disappeared to, because he barked out a short, rough laugh. "Maka, you have three kids. Pretty sure you know how these things happen."

Maka rolled her eyes. "I just mean–" she sighed. "Blake got cut years ago, and I just wasn't thinking–and then, I figured I was going through the change. I never thought, never would have thought–"

"Okay, first off, I really, _really_ don't need to know anything about Blake's bits. And second, you're the one who said we should test." In truth, Soul was as stunned as she was, but it was easier to hide behind snark.

"To rule it out," she snapped. "I just never thought, at my age–"

"Well, guess my sperm is just _that_ potent." He waggled his eyebrows at her, earning him an elbow to the ribs. "Hey!"

"Just–be serious for once, would you? It must be wrong. There's no way. We'll do it again. I bought a three pack, so we'll just–do it again."

"Yeah, alright," he agreed.

An hour later, they were back on the sofa, staring down three sticks where one had been before. The result was the same for all–one word, small and black and seemingly innocuous. So strange, how one word could hold so much power, how one word could turn their lives upside down. One little eight letter word.

Pregnant.

"It didn't change," Maka stated dumbly after staring at the third stick for several minutes.

"Nope," Soul agreed.

"What–what are we gonna do?" It was practically a whisper, and she felt 19 instead of 49.

"I have no idea," he said evenly. And yet–_and yet_–there was a small part of him that reveled in the thought of a child together. In spite of everything he knew it would mean, that small part was quickly growing.

"Our kids are grown," she sighed.

"Mmm hmmm," he agreed.

"We're too old for a baby–we should be pestering our kids for grandbabies not–not–"

"–having a kid young enough to be our grand baby?" he suggested.

"Exactly," she sighed again.

Soul didn't want to suggest what came next, the logical conclusion, but for her, he had to.

"We don't have to do this, you know. We can put it behind us. I'll accept whatever you decide."

She didn't say anything for a time, didn't look at him, her eyes still fixed on the center of the table. Finally, she let out another deep sigh and turned to look at him. "I know. _ I know_," she sounded frustrated. "But I–I don't think I can do that, Soul. I–scary as this is, I don't think I can–I can't destroy something we made together, something that's you and me. It's–" she shook her head. "I just can't. So like it or not, this baby is happening. I know you didn't sign on for this, so–

"Maka," he grabbed her hand and squeezed, sensing where she was going with this before she even spoke the words.

"–so I'll completely understand if you–"

"Maka," he repeated, taking her other hand, trying to curb the flow of her words.

"–want to go our separate ways and–"

"Maka!" He finally half shouted, and her eyes, glassy and distant, widened as she met his gaze. "I'm not going anywhere. Ever. Not gonna lose you again. And you know what? Maybe we didn't plan this, but I want it. You were always the one I wanted it with, and I'll take it late over not at all."

She swallowed and nodded, her eyes meeting his. "Yeah, me too."

"So I guess this means we're having a baby?" The idea of it, the allure, was overpowering. They were going to have a baby–he and Maka–together. He was going to have a baby with the love of his life. Finally. _Finally_. It was a flood of relief, of hope, a cathartic rush of realization that it wasn't too late, they could still have everything they had always wanted. Soul let the wide grin stretch over his features, let the odd feeling of elation wash through him as she grinned back.

"Yeah, I guess we are."

* * *

Deciding that yes, they were going to keep the unexpected results of several months worth of vigorously making up for lost time was one thing–dealing with the consequences of that decision was quite another. This wasn't their first rodeo, and the prizes gained from past excursions would have to be informed, a tricky prospect at best since of the four children between them, only one even knew they were together.

Maka was dreading it, worried that her own children would be less than enthusiastic about Soul, about the baby, about all of it.

It was her idea to get their kids all together for a big family dinner to announce the pregnancy. Those plans were quickly pared down as she overthought, deciding instead that they would announce they were getting married since Maka's kids didn't even know Soul _existed_.

It was going to be awkward, but it had to be done.

Soul thought they should just spill it all, rip it off like a band aid in one go, but Maka refused. The kids had just lost their Dad–she couldn't saddle them with so much so soon. This was Too Much as it was.

He left it up to her. His own daughter already knew they were dating, and it wasn't his place to decide how to deal with her children. Announcing the pregnancy could wait.

To say the dinner was awkward would have been the understatement of the century.

The primary difficulty was getting everyone in the same place at the same time, since they were in Maine, Soul's daughter was in Los Angeles, and Maka's children were in and around New York. In the end, they decided that bringing Lila east and meeting in Manhattan was the best course of action. Soul got them a suite at the Ritz, made sure his daughter was similarly set up, and arranged reservations at a place so exclusive that Maka had to protest the frivolity, long and vocally, but he just dismissed her concerns since he was paying, and if they were stuck in the city, then he at least wanted to eat well, damnitall.

They arrived in the city two days early and fully utilized room service and a rather large hot tub; by the time they arrived at the restaurant for dinner, they were both relaxed, sated, and in Maka's case, more than a little tired–first trimester was always hell.

It didn't help that her fiancé–God it was strange to think that–had seduced her just before they should have left for the restaurant, leaving her spent.

It also did nothing for her churning stomach that all of their children had arrived before them, that instead of easing introductions, she and Soul were left to be greeted by four pairs of inquisitive eyes.

Soul squeezed her hand under the table as she glanced around at her children, eyes finally settling on Soul's daughter to avoid meeting her own children's' confused stares. She was just as gorgeous as her pictures with her porcelain skin, long blonde hair, and wide, piercing blue eyes.

"So, I'm guessing you're all–wondering what this is about. You see–well–actually, maybe we should make introductions first. I'm Maka. Maka Albarn-Barrett, and you must be Lila–"

The young woman across the table stood and held out a hand, her smile warm and genuine. "Liliana Evans–I'm really glad to finally meet you."

"Likewise," Maka smiled back, shaking her hand firmly before finally turning her eyes to her own children. "Liliana is–well–" she turned her eyes to Soul, who nodded at her reassuringly.

"This is Soul. Soul Evans, Liliana's father. Soul, these are my children, Marlowe, Austen, and Elizabeth Albarn-Barrett," she gestured to each in turn, and Soul rose to extend a hand and shake before they all sat and Maka cleared her throat. For his part, Soul hated seeing her this clearly agitated, but she had insisted she owed it to her kids to handle this, so it was her show. He squeezed her hand under the table again in a gesture of reassurance and she squeezed back, offering a small smile before turning her eyes back to the kids.

"Anyway, Soul and I–that is to say–" her gaze slid between her children as she searched for the right words.

It was Marlowe, her oldest, who interrupted. "Mom–it's okay. Lila already told us you two are dating before you got here." He looked concerned, guarded.

"Oh–well–that's good." She let out a breath. "Yes, Soul and I are–we're together–but that's not exactly–"

"We're getting married," his deep voice cut off her stammering. He couldn't take hearing her so out of sorts, and for as much as he'd wanted to let her do this her way, saving her from herself was more important.

Maka had no chance to react to the interruption as the dark haired girl at the table shot up from her seat, glaring down at her mother. "You're _what_?" she shrieked, drawing eyes from across the restaurant, her own green eyes flashing dangerously.

Maka took a deep breath, calming, felt Soul squeeze her thigh under the table. "Like Soul said–we're getting married."

"No," her daughter said, seething.

"Lizzie," the man across from her spoke, tone low. "We talked about this–"

"No, we did _not_ talk about this, Mar," she turned her eyes to her brother, glaring, her tone lower but still loud. "We talked about the fact that our Mom is a whore shacking up with some rando when Dad's barely cold in his grave –we did not talk about her being a fucking gold digger, too."

"Lizzie," her brother's tone was a warning, his eyes glancing to their mother, who was scarlet, mouth working noiselessly, then to the man next to her who was quietly seething, looking ready to strike at anything that threatened the woman at his side, his hand reaching up to squeeze her shoulder in comfort. "Stop."

"Lizzie," Maka's voice was quiet, pained. "You need to understand–"

"Understand _what_, exactly? That you couldn't go more than a few months without getting laid? I sure hope he's good in bed, Mom, because he looks like a fucking creep. Guess the fact he's rich doesn't hurt either, right?"

"What the _fuck_, Lizzie?" This came from the man at Lizzie's side. "Calm the fuck down, you–"

"Fuck you, Austen."

"Sorry, not into incest," he deadpanned before shaking his head, ash blond hair moving to cover his deep green eyes. "Seriously, Lizzie, sit the fuck down, shut the fuck up, and apologize to-"

"Seriously, _fuck you,"_ she shrieked again. "No–you know what? Fuck _all of you._ I'm fucking out of here. But you know," her eyes swiveled to Lila, who was staring, stunned. "I do owe you an apology. I'm totally sorry your new step mom is a selfish, greedy slut. Sucks to be you."

Done, she walked off, not even sparing a glance behind, every pair of eyes in the restaurant gaping after her.

"I–" Maka shook her head, clearly distraught. "I think–I mean, I need to go, I'm–I'm really sorry. I'm not feeling–I mean–" she just shook her head and stood and Soul followed suit, steadying her by the elbow.

"Lila" He exchanged a look with his daughter. "Go ahead and put dinner on the card, I'm going to take Maka back to the hotel." He turned his eyes to the two men still seated at the table. "Thanks for coming, we'll be in touch about the wedding."

Soul didn't wait for a response, simply guided his flustered fiancée out of the restaurant, unsure how to comfort the woman he loved, the woman he knew had a backbone wrought of steel, as she cried in his arms the whole way back to the hotel and long, long into the night.

* * *

Maka left exactly three messages for her daughter–one trying to explain that they were in love, one asking her to attend the wedding, and one simply apologizing.

Lizzie responded to none of them, and Soul kept assuring her that her daughter would come around eventually.

The wedding itself was set to occur the next month. Both Soul and Maka had wanted to keep it small and quiet, but Lila had insisted that they deserved to celebrate what they'd found together and that she would take care of everything. Since Soul had rarely been able to deny his daughter anything and felt no real drive to do so now, and since Maka had no real objections, a big wedding it would be, with Lila handling it all, only asking their opinions on major decisions. It was a tight schedule, but with enough money, time was no issue, and if there was one thing the Evanses had enough of, it was money.

Maka felt a little absurd being fussed over like a blushing bride, 49 and pregnant, but made no complaints. Any distraction from Lizzie and morning sickness was pretty welcome at that point.

The wedding rushed up on them quickly, and as Maka sat at the dressing table in the church, eying her flawless hair, makeup, and couture dress with skepticism, she sighed. Lizzie wasn't there, hadn't showed. Maka had hoped she'd stand with her as her maid of honor; she had Lila stand with her instead, and for as much as she'd come to love Soul's daughter over the weeks she'd gotten to know her, it wasn't the same. She tried to ignore the hurt, let herself get lost in it all, in her new husband's adoring stare, in being his, in him being hers after so very long, in the lingering kiss that sealed their forever, but a small part of her still felt the absence of her youngest child keenly.

For his part, Soul sensed the melancholy beneath her genuine elation and sought to erase it with his mouth. He might also have been impatient to feel his new wife pressed against him, to peel away that maddening dress and mark every inch of her as his his finally _finally_ his, but that was secondary at best.

It didn't take much convincing on his part to get her to agree to a walk mid-dinner, and the proper application of his tongue and teeth as they stood squirreled away in a dark corner had her panting for privacy as much as he was. The small utility closet tucked back in a dark hallway looked increasingly inviting as he pressed heated kisses to her neck, her cleavage, his hand moving further and further up her thigh under her dress.

"Soul," she gasped, palming him through his slacks and eliciting a low, throaty groan. "There's–a–mmm–closet. Down the hall."

He didn't need to be told twice, scooping her up and practically sprinting to the door at the end of the hall.

He worked open the door with his free hand and then, as it swung open, nearly dropped his new wife at the sight before them.

The closet was occupied, its inhabitants panting and disheveled as they sprang apart.

Inhabitants they knew well.

Inhabitants who should not know each other nearly so well.

"Shit," Soul swore as Maka dropped to her feet.

"Lila? _Marlowe_?" she gasped, incredulous. "You–no," she shook her head vehemently. "This can't–no. You two, we just–you _can't_–"

"Mom," Marlowe sounded deceptively calm for how flustered he looked, skin flushed, clothes askew, dark brown hair in disarray.

"No, Marlowe, you can't–she's your–I mean, we just got married, so she's your–your step sister–" she stammered.

"Maka," Soul said quietly, touching his wife's shoulder lightly to get her attention. She turned her eyes to him and he continued. "They're both adults, they're both good kids, and they aren't _actually_ related. We should leave."

Maka swallowed thickly, but nodded. "Yeah, okay," she said quietly, letting her new husband steer her from the closet.

He paused at the threshold, spinning back around. "Have fun, be safe, and if you hurt my daughter, stepson or not, I'll fucking kill you myself." His grin was sharp as he clicked the door shut behind him and, the mood gone, the bride and groom returned to the reception.

If nothing else, the revelation of their closet crusading children got her mind off of her missing daughter, and they made up for the opportunity lost during the reception in spades afterwards.

* * *

Their honeymoon in the French Riviera lasted two weeks, and they saw far less beach than bed. Neither were sorry for that, and after the newlyweds returned home, they agreed it was past time they came clean. Maka had the big mid pregnancy ultrasound scheduled for a week after their return, and they both decided that, after that, they would tell their kids.

When it came time for the ultrasound, they were both exceedingly nervous. Maka was at the extreme end of reproductive age and, healthy as she was, they both knew there were risks. The blood work had been done and now was when they'd learn what they were facing.

As they sat with the genetic counselor before the ultrasound– a squat, kind looking middle aged woman with greying brown hair and far too much make up– they held hands almost instinctively.

"Well, then," she looked between them, face passive. "Your blood work shows some unexpected results."

The couple tightened their mutual grip, waiting with bated breath.

"It would appear you have the eggs of a nineteen year old," she looked at Maka, a wide grin spreading garishly across her powder cake face. "The blood work shows minimal risk for genetic disorders–congratulations. The ultrasound will be the final marker, but so far it looks promising. Who knows, we may even find another heartbeat–twins are more common among older mothers, you know."

Maka's grip on her husband's hand became almost painfully tight because the very thought was overwhelming. Still, even at her age, twins were rare. They'd be fine.

They weren't fine.

The ultrasound revealed two very important things. The first was that the baby was healthy, with no sign of issues. It was the second revelation, however, that left them breathless as the technician soon announced that the baby was, in fact, not one baby but two, just as the counselor had warned was possible–two thriving fetuses, a boy and a girl.

Maka's grip on Soul's hand could have cracked bone–she really did feel like shanking the woman whose words had seemingly cursed them to their fate.

Twins. How the hell were they going to handle_ twins_?

It felt like the sticks on the table all over again, like they were shaky and sick on too many sweets.

"No," Maka shook her head as the bubbly young technician continued to work, pressing the ultrasound lead against her belly and blathering on about how cute twins would be. "That–can't be right. There must be, there _has to be s_ome mistake."

The tech shook her head, short blond locks flying. "I'm–there's no mistake," she said, all enthusiasm drained at Maka's outburst. "There are two. I'm–" she hesitated, shook her head again. "I'm sorry if it's not what you were hoping for. There are–options the doctor can give you when she comes in, but I need to finish first."

Maka just nodded numbly as the technician continued with the procedure, Soul squeezing her hand and brushing her hair from her face.

"It'll be okay," he said softly.

She just shook her head and stayed silent for the rest of the procedure, even as the doctor came in to review the tests and suggest that while they would do a thorough examination of all the information they had gathered, the tentative results were promising. As Soul led her back to her small Honda, quiet and numb himself at the news, a small flutter of joy appeared in his stomach unbidden because there were _two little miracles_, two pieces of him and her– of t_hem_– growing inside of her.

But _her fea_r, _her trepidation_, was palpable, and because he still had fear of his own, he tamped down on the smile that threatened, schooling his features as he helped his wife into the car. Soul slid into the driver's seat but didn't bother to start the engine. The parking garage was shadowed, her face turned from him to the passenger window as he finally broke the silence.

"It'll be alright," he repeated his reassurance from earlier.

"Like hell it will," she shook her head, refusing to look away from the window. "I'm almost fifty, Soul. You _are_ fifty. One baby was already too much, but _two_?" She was shaking her head rapidly. "We can't." The last was too quiet, and he reached a hand to rest on her thigh, squeezing it comfortingly.

"You're right. We aren't kids anymore," he began. "But Maka, that just means we know what the hell we're doing. We can get help, get a fucking nanny, _we can do this._ I mean, I'll stand by what you want, _whatever_ you want, told you from the start, but I think we can handle this. You're the strongest person I know–I know you can do this."

Her swallow was audible, but Maka said nothing as she let out a long breath. A minute passed, then two as she simply sat, mute and impassive, and Soul felt anxiety claw at him in a way he hadn't experienced since he'd come to her on the steps of her father's home all those months ago. Not even when they'd stared down three positive pregnancy tests, when they'd faced their children, when they'd discovered their eldest two together in a closet had he been so concerned. Never since Soul gained Maka to begin with had he felt so close to losing her again for good.

The pain was overwhelming at the very thought. He couldn't lose her again, not after really being with her, not after he knew–really knew–what he'd missed all those years. He didn't think he would survive losing her again, yet she must hate him now, blame him–blame them being together for all of this.

"Maka," he said her name before he knew he meant to, voice soft and nearly pleading.

"Alright," she nodded once, firmly, before turning her gaze his way for the first time since they'd entered the car. Her green eyes were steel, strong and sure. "You're right, we can do this. We _will_ do this."

The smile that spread across her face at that was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, fierce, determined, and his poor, beleaguered heart flooded with relief and adoration for the passionate creature he now had the privilege to call his wife.

If she had decided they could do this, then there was no doubt they would. Maka was ready to take on the pregnancy, the twins, the whole damned world; he could see it in her eyes, and for his part, Soul would always take her lead, would follow her to the ends of the earth.

* * *

As it turned out, he only had to follow her to Brooklyn, to the little Italian place they sat in a week later surrounded by their children.

Lila and Marlowe arrived together, holding hands–she'd chosen to spend her summer in New York, and there had been talk of him looking for work in L.A.

As strange as it was to have their children together, both parents were happy for them because the two seemed genuinely _happy _themselves, and Maka desperately hoped the announcement they were about to make wouldn't shove a wrench in the works. None of their children knew she was expecting, let alone twins–she was only just showing and dressed to mask it–and she was concerned about how they would take it.

Especially Lizzie, who didn't show.

Lizzie, who hadn't come to their wedding, who hadn't spoken to her since that night in Manhattan several months ago.

Lizzie, who she would have to leave a message for lest she hear the news from her brothers.

Lizzie, who was going to hate her even more now.

Maka took a deep breath after they ordered, willing her youngest out of her mind, willing herself to calm. Part of her wished Blake were here–he had always had a way with their daughter that she lacked, had been able to get her to see something like reason. Blake would have understood. Hell, Blake would have been happy for her, would have been the first to cheer them on.

Sometimes, she missed him terribly.

She took another breath, readying herself to speak the words that could very well cause a scene, when Austen's voice broke through her thoughts. He looked so much like her with his ash blonde hair and deep green eyes, yet he had always been more Blake than her on the inside, boisterous and charismatic, constantly seeking the spotlight. When he'd declared himself a theater major, Maka had been entirely unsurprised.

"So, Mom!" He looked to them with a wide grin. "And, uh, Soul–" it was an afterthought, but Maka appreciated the effort. "I have news!"

Maka blinked at him, a bit stunned at the usurpation, but nonetheless eager to know what had her middle child so visibly excited.

"What's going on, Austen?"

"I'm taking a semester off!" he declared happily. Maka frowned deeply at that and shook her head.

"Austen–" his brother's tone was a reprimand. "Tell her _why_."

"I was_ getting _to that!" he snapped, then looked back to his mom, grinning like the kid who'd found the cookie jar. "I've been cast as the lead in a movie, Mom. We start shooting in L.A. next month–" He held up a placating hand though Maka was far from interrupting. "Don't worry, I already arranged for a leave of absence with the Dean of Students. Might still even be able to graduate on time, so–"

The grin that erupted on her face was contagious. "That's so great, sweetie–so great! I'm so proud of you! Your Dad would be too, you know."

"Yeah," he grinned back. "Yeah Mom, I know."

For a time, the whole purpose of their dinner was derailed as Austen chattered on enthusiastically about the role, followed by Lila and Marlowe revealing plans to move in together in L. A.

This had gotten off track fast and–happy as they both were for their kids–their purpose here remained unchanged. Finally, as food arrived and they still hadn't been able to find an opening to make their announcement, Soul ordered a bottle of champagne and suggested a toast–a move Maka appreciated since it wasn't exactly in his comfort zone–both knowing they had to get the undivided attention of their children some way.

As the champagne arrived and was poured, Soul cleared his throat. He wasn't nervous for himself-he doubted Lila would be upset–but he could feel his wife's nerves, and hoped they would soon prove unfounded. "To Austen's new role," he said, nodding to his stepson as he raised his glass. "To new love," he looked to his daughter and oldest stepson before taking a steadying breath. "And to new life," he finished, taking a deep drink of the champaign before setting the glass on the table with a clink. Maka noticeably abstained and Lila and Marlowe's eyes went wide as Austen just looked puzzled, glancing over at his brother.

"There–somethin' you aren't tellin' me, bro?" he asked slowly, receiving only a vehement headshake from his brother in return. "Then what the hell–"

"I'm pregnant," Maka finally blurted out, the words like a weight lifting even as she spoke them.

"You're–" Marlowe began.

"Pregnant?" Austen blinked, confused. "Like–with a baby?"

Lila just gasped as Soul corrected, "Two, actually. They're due in November."

"Oh my god, Dad!" Lila practically squealed. "That's–I mean–oh my _god_!" She shook her head but she was grinning.

"But _how_?" Austen's brow was furrowed. "I mean, you're–you're almost fifty–"

Maka colored, but held her ground. "I know you're aware of how this all works. And I know–" her eyes strayed to a Lila and Marlowe "–it's unexpected, but–I mean," she glanced at Soul, "while we didn't _plan_ this, we are _happy_, and we hope–we hope you'll be happy for us."

Marlowe took in a deep breath and nodded. "I am, Mom. I really am. And if you need anything, I–"

"_We_," Lila cut in, her smile never faltering.

"_We_," he amended. "Are here, okay?"

"Yeah," she smiled at him and his face lit up in turn. "Okay."

Then she was on her feet and moving around the table to hug her oldest child, gratitude, relief, and love washing through her in equal measure. She felt slender arms hug her from behind, heard her son whisper "I love you, Mom. I'm just glad you're happy," and thought she might faint, her heart overstrained by sheer joy.

Her son and stepdaughter finally let her go, and she found herself being held by her middle son for a moment in a tight hug, before he let her go as well, smoothed a hand over her belly to feel the well masked lump, and then, looking between her and Soul still seated on the other side of the table, whistled.

"Damn, but you two do work _fast_!"

Maka colored, Soul smirked, Marlowe guffawed, Lila chuckled, and they all soon after sat and enjoyed the rest of their dinner, the lies between them cleared and only the dark cloud of Lizzie's absence hanging palpably in the distance like the harbinger of yet another coming storm.

* * *

Much like the wedding before, Lila insisted on orchestrating a baby shower.

The shower would be held in Los Angeles.

It wasn't even a question.

As Maka sat in her dad's old place packing up her life a few months later, packing away countless memories, her smile was bittersweet. With Austen off to L.A. for the shoot and, likely, eventually permanently, with Lila there and now Marlowe, with Soul's brother and his wife and grown daughter there too, it made sense to be close to more family.

Still, she'd grown up in Maine, in Death City; it was here that she had been born, here that she had met Blake and Soul, here that she had finally reunited and lived with her new husband, here that they had made the babies she now carried, here where her father had lived and died. Leaving it behind for a second time to start her new life was harder than she'd thought it would be, and as she packed away pictures of her children, of Lizzie as a toddler in her arms when they'd spent one of countless summers with her dad, the tears came unbidden, dripping freely onto her hands, onto the frame she held so tightly. They were bittersweet. Maka missed her Papa and Blake, she missed her daughter, but she loved Soul, their babies, the life they were building together, had always, _always_ loved him. She couldn't have all of them together, she knew that, but losing her daughter hurt the most, and that was the one part she might be able to change.

Maka was trying. She had sent her daughter a birthday gift–tickets to Rome for summer break. She kept paying her tuition, had called and left a message, telling her about the twins she carried, telling her how much she loved her and missed her and wanted to see her.

Lizzie still wouldn't return her calls.

Maka felt a hand squeeze her shoulder–she hadn't even heard Soul come back from the store she was so lost to her thoughts–felt strong arms envelope her, heard his deep voice tell her it was going to be okay for the umpteenth time.

It was hard to believe him when she missed her daughter so much, but most of the time she forced herself to forget that grief, taking solace in his arms.

* * *

The day to move came, then the shower came and went.

Lila hosted, and it was elegant and tasteful, held in the back room of a popular bistro. Both of her new daughter's mothers attended, eager to know the person who had so thoroughly captured Soul Evans' elusive heart–they had also attended the wedding, but it had been such a whirlwind that she had barely spoken to them. Anya was smart and pleasant and looked like an older version of her daughter, and her wife Tsugumi was sincere and kind, and, being from Japan, someone Maka could speak to in that long unused tongue. She liked them well and thought they might become friends. Wes's wife also came, a squat, vivacious woman with mocha skin and a ready smile, along their tall, elegant daughter.

It was a small affair, but pleasant.

If Lizzie had come, Maka might have even enjoyed it.

Later that night, as she packed away the extravagant gifts, she blinked away the tears that threatened, her mouth flattening into a grim line, determined. She would be happy about her new family, whether her daughter liked it or not.

* * *

Pregnancy had been surprisingly kind to Maka. While the first trimester had been a time of queasiness and exhaustion, it was only for the first several weeks, and then she'd felt good for months. She kept up on her yoga, her swimming, her martial arts, and physically, she felt good–better, even, than her first three pregnancies.

She still felt pretty good, physically, as week thirty two rolled around and her new obstetrician, Dr. Sizemore, a high risk specialist out of UCLA medical center that Soul had insisted on, ordered her blood pressure to be taken for the third time.

His deep frown was troubling, and Soul finally snapped "What?" as he glanced over her chart.

"Well, Mr. Evans," he turned kind blue eyes to Maka. "Mrs. Evans' blood pressure is elevated. It's not high enough to rush things, but I think bedrest is in order, along with nonstress tests. Three a week should suffice, and you'll be seeing me weekly from now on as well."

"But the babies are okay?" Maka's brow was crinkled with concern as she felt her husband grip her hand like a lifeline, his fear almost palpable.

"Oh the babies are fine–strong heartbeat, no discernible problems. I'm going to have a new ultrasound done just to be certain, but I think we won't be seeing any issues. This is largely a precaution, you understand?"

Soul nodded slowly. "So Maka and the babies are okay?"

"Exactly, and this should help keep them that way. Now then, if you'll excuse me, I'll order that ultrasound and have Nurse Tatane make all the necessary arrangements. Barring any unforeseen complications, I should be seeing you next week, Mrs. Evans–take care."

He saw himself out, but the two left behind didn't really breathe until the ultrasound showed two healthy babies not too long after, and when they returned to the large penthouse apartment that Soul used to inhabit alone, he fussed over her more than usual, and Maka silently questioned whether she had married a pianist or a mother hen.

The weeks came and went, and bedrest or no, Maka felt fine and more than a little stir crazy. She wanted everything in order, the nursery Soul had commissioned in the third bedroom adorable and comfortable, but not organized to her liking. She wanted to continue her yoga, to swim, to do anything but lounge all day.

Lila and Marlowe visited frequently, Marlowe updating her on how Lizzie was doing–still dean's list, still an undeclared major, still as irreverent as ever. They avoided talking about her long absence from her mother, and Maka tried to content herself in the knowledge that her daughter was doing just fine without her.

Her induction was scheduled for thirty seven weeks–unlikely she would make it that long, but the doctor didn't want her carrying the twins for even a second longer than she had to. The afternoon before it was scheduled, her bags were long since packed. Maka had just gone to the bathroom and was climbing back into her bed to read when there was a sort of pop and a gush, and suddenly there was water soaking the floor beneath her nightgown.

Her water–had broken? But she didn't even have contractions. Maka had been through three pregnancies before and her water had never broken on its own.

"Soul…?" she called out shakily, the sounds of the piano in the room over telling her where he was. The melody was new, soft and sweet, and she might have smiled if the situation weren't so pressing.

"Soul." Her voice was louder, raised as she waddled her way to the door, still dripping warmth uncomfortably down her legs.

The soft piano played on.

"Soul!" she finally shouted from the door and the answering discordant crash of keys and rush of footsteps told her that he'd heard. He arrived at the doorway panting, red eyes ride with fear.

"I think–" she looked down at her soaked legs, at the newly accumulating puddle beneath her. "The babies are coming."

"Fuck," he breathed. "_Now_?"

She rolled her eyes. "No, next Tuesday. Get the bag, I'll call the doctor. We need to go."

And so they did.

Phone calls were made, troops assembled, and a crowd gathered in the labor and delivery waiting room at UCLA medical center.

Only Soul stayed in the delivery room with Maka, rubbing her back and holding her hand and reminding her to breathe. The doctor had warned that given her age and that she was carrying twins, a section was a highly likely outcome. Make was determined to make it happen the natural way. She had had three successful vaginal births and she _would_ have a fourth as well.

Still, her blood pressure was spiking and she was stuck on her back on the bed, and as hours of painful labor came to a head in full blown pushing, as the babies' heart rates were dipping dangerously low, a section was looking more and more likely.

Maka was having none of it. She pushed like her life depended on it, long and hard, and a baby's head crowned. She pushed past the contractions, past everything, and one baby emerged, blue–the baby was blue–the baby wasn't crying, wasn't breathing, the doctor said as they whisked the newborn away and Soul wrung squeezed her hand, palpably distraught at her side. The world felt hazy as the doctor urged her to push again, as she gave her all and more, as she felt the familiar ring of fire as the second child crowned.

There was a lusty cry, the feel of something warm and squirmy on her chest, and then there was nothing but darkness.

* * *

Maka regained consciousness slowly, the outside light too bright behind her eyelids, her head throbbing.

There was a hand squeezing her own, warm, a little sweaty.

"Soul," she murmured around a mouth that felt too dry, her tongue thick. Maka struggled to force open heavy eyelids as she tried desperately to remember where she was.

"No, I'm sorry, Mom–it's–it's just me," a soft voice answered. It was familiar, achingly familiar, but decidedly Not Soul.

No, it was–

"Lizzie?" she gasped, her eyelids flying open to meet with the concerned gaze of her daughter.

"Hi," Lizzie looked down at her with a soft, almost sheepish smile. "I'm–I know I'm probably the last person you want to see right now, but–"

Maka couldn't help the tears that flowed as she squeezed her daughter's hand for the first time in nearly half a year. "I'm so happy to see you," she breathed, smiling. "So happy."

"Me–me too, Mom," Lizzie said, looking pained. She had dyed her hair the same garish shade of blue her father used to sport, and she reminded her so much of Blake in that moment that her heart constricted.

But something tickled at her beyond the edges of her consciousness, something she needed to know–

"But–where–where are Soul and–and–_oh my god the twins_–are they–are they alright?"

Her eyes grew wide with panic, but Lizzie shushed her, moving a hand to smooth back her mother's ashen hair.

"Mom–Mom, it's okay, they're all okay. The babies–there were some issues with the boy, but the girl came out fine, and they got the little boy breathing fast and he's–he's gonna be just fine, Mom. S–Mr. Evans is in with them and the doctor. He thought–I mean, he told me I should be the one to stay with you until he got back. He's been so worried, Mom, we all have." She shook her head, and Maka could see her eyes brighten with unshed tears. "I'm sorry–I'm so_ so_ sorry."

And the tears came out in a flood, and Maka tugged on her daughter's hand and, weak as she was, she held her close as her daughter leaned over to nuzzle into her chest.

"I–I was such a bitch, so awful–I thought, fuck I thought–but then, a few weeks ago, Marlowe showed up at my dorm and he told me–he told me I needed to listen. He told me everything, Mom, everything. About how you and–and Soul knew each other as kids, and about how you were in love–everything. I didn't know. I came here last week–Lila and Marlowe let me stay with them–and I've wanted to talk to you so much–_so much_–but I was afraid you'd hate me, so I–"

"I could never, _never_ hate you," Maka said fiercely. "You're my baby. You're always gonna be my baby." Maka stroked her daughter's hair, ignoring the tears that soaked into her hospital gown, ignoring her own tears.

"I–I'm sorry, Mom. I know Dad would want you to be happy, I know he would, I just miss him, I miss him _so damned much, _and–" She sniffed and raised her head up meet her mother's eyes "–I don't know if I'll ever be able to like your new husband, Mom, but I promise I'll try."

There was a throat clearing from the doorway and both women looked up to see a mop of disheveled white hair hovering above tired red eyes and rumpled clothing.

In spite of his exhaustion, Soul was smiling as he stepped into the room, as two plastic bassinets were wheeled in by nurses behind him.

Soul picked up the newborns one at a time, whispy tufts of red and white blonde just peaking out over their swaddling, handing one to his wife as Lizzie backed out of the way, while simply holding the other. Maka eyed the sleepy little red haired bundle in her arms, smiling down at eyes squinched shut against the light of the room.

"We need to name them," she said softly, holding the infant close.

"Well," Soul offered as he sat in the chair Lizzie had vacated only moments before. "Our little girl had the cord around her neck twice. She wasn't breathing at first, but when she finally did, her shrieks could have woken the dead. Seems like she got her grandpa's hair, but her mom's fighting spirit."

Maka nodded down at the little sleepy bundle, blue eyes just fighting to blink up at her.

"Then maybe we should call her Spirit, like my dad."

Soul nodded, smiling softly at his new wife and daughter. "I like that. And this little guy," he held up his own white blond bundle. "Shrieked for all of fifteen seconds, and has been content ever since, barely making a fuss even when he's got a full diaper."

"It sounds like he might be his father's son," Maka laughed, but Soul frowned.

"We are _not_ naming him Soul."

"Well–what about Galen, then?"

"Galen?" He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"It means calm."

"That's also perfect. Spirit and Galen it is."

"Those are pretty great names," the familiar voice of Maka's oldest son cut in, and the two new parents raised their eyes to see the other three children gathered just behind.

"Yeah." Soul nodded. They really are." He stood and kissed his wife, first on the forehead then the mouth, a sweet peck, contentment washing through him, through them both. After everything, after the years apart, after the difficulties with Maka's daughter, after all of it, the babies, _their babies, all of their babies,_ were here and safe.

In the end, being together, here and now with their family healthy and whole around them was all either of them could ask for.


End file.
